


The Blob

by cornelius



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Men of Letters Bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 03:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cornelius/pseuds/cornelius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://sflor018.tumblr.com">sflor018</a>, one of the winners of my 1500 followers giveaway on my <a href="http://s-cornelius.tumblr.com">blog</a>. The prompt was "So, I’ve been thinking about it what I would like, and I’ve narrowed it down to a DeanCas fic, featuring Sam, and it doesn’t necessarily need to be romantic at all. For the prompt, I really love germaphobe Dean."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Blob

Dean isn’t surprised at all that the Men of Letters died out. They had detailed files on every creature they encountered, every spell any of their members learned, and every god-forsaken hokey ritual they used. They had list after list of artifacts and cursed objects, but none of that is what brought Dean to the dusty and dank artifact storage room. 

There are three dead bodies in Iowa, all missing their bones, and Sam found what he seems to think is a lead scrawled in the corner of some official-looking form tucked into a file about a similar case. The file talks about a three-hundred year-old idol that then Men of Letters stashed away, but Dean has no idea how a half-legible set of instructions is supposed to be anything more than a wild goose chase. Of course the instructions for finding this idol weren’t written down in any existing filing system, but Sam thinks the scribbles map out quasi-directions for finding the damn thing.

Dean stares at the rows and rows of shelves filled to the brim with all sorts of mystical terrors locked away in identical boxes, and sighs. He stands in the center aisle and wonders how “four back, three up, two over” was ever a useful way of archiving anything, before picking the right side at random, and starting there. He walks past three rows of shelves and turns to face the fourth, deciding that the front is probably what these scrawled instructions intended. He fights through decades of dust and cobwebs just to get to the artifacts, and no matter how much he rubs his arms or shakes his head, he can feel the grime of years cling to his skin and hair.

He starts from the bottom of the shelving unit and counts up three rows, quickly locating the second box from the left after brushing off another cobweb. The box itself is the standard wooden box the Men of Letters used to store all their items and despite its potential danger, sits unassuming on the shelf. Dean swears again to himself that one day, he’s going to transfer all of this junk to archival boxes and digitize all the records. 

Or at least, make Sam do it. It would be fitting payback for making Dean rifle through the dark, barely organized archives while he and Cas pore over files in the well-lit and _clean_ library.

Before approaching the box, Dean double checks that he’s still got his toolkit of artifact-neutralizers: holy water, hex bags, thick leather gloves covered in the sigils they use on curse boxes, and good old-fashioned iron tongs. He even has some welders’ goggles hanging around his neck, just in case whatever’s in the box uses light as a means of transmitting its magic. 

He places his instructions on the shelf and kneels down to examine the box, before pulling the goggles up to cover his eyes and tugging on the gloves. He carefully peels the lid to the box open, ready to avert his eyes if necessary, and finds that it’s empty. Dean peeks under the lid and even rifles through the straw at the bottom, but he finds absolutely nothing. 

Closing the box, he sighs again and yanks off his goggles. He starts to tug off one glove with his teeth when he notices a small drop of black goo on his glove. The drop is tiny, no larger than a pinprick of blood and perfectly round. He touches it gently with his other gloved hand, and it transfers completely to his second glove, leaving nothing behind on this first. 

Deciding it’s probably just grease or oil picked up from somewhere in the bunker, Dean pulls off one glove, then the other, and tucks them under his right arm. He looks at the instructions again, and walks around to the back of the shelf, hoping to have better luck on the other side.

He repeats the procedure from before: kneeling down by the box, putting the instructions on the shelf, pulling on his goggles, tugging on his gloves. But this time, he feels something wet and sticky on the inside of his arm. Just under the hem of his t-shirt sleeve is the black goo from his glove, but now it’s almost the size of a quarter. And to make matters worse, it’s growing.

Dean drops his supplies and fishes around in his pants for his phone. He jams the button for Sam and looks at the oily spot on his arm as the phone rings.

Sam picks up, but before he can say hello, Dean says quickly, “There’s something on my arm and it’s getting bigger.”

“Uh,” Sam pauses before his hunter instincts take over, “Can you describe it to me?

“It’s a black liquid,” Dean touches the inside of his arm with his bare left hand, and comes away with a second growing blob, “And it seems to really like my skin.”

Dean hears Sam repeat the description to Cas before Cas asks to take the phone from Sam.

“Does water have any effect?” Cas asks over the scrape of chairs against the hardwood floors. Dean distantly thinks they both must be standing now, but he feels like his brain is sprouting grass like a chia pet. 

“I don’t know,” Dean replies a little slower than he means to, “I don’t have any water.” 

“Meet me in the bathroom as soon as possible,” Cas says and hangs up. Dean shoves his phone back into his pocket and gets up to walk toward the door. As soon he stands, he knows something is wrong. On his first step, the whole bunker starts to shake. He grabs for nearby shelves to keep himself upright and stumbles to the door.

Once out in the hall, the floor is no longer shaking but his left hand starts to itch. He absently scratches the palm of his left hand as he walks in the direction of the bathroom (or wait, was it the other way?). He turns a corner and the floor melts into the same black goo now covering a good portion of each of his arms. Each step he takes feels more and more impossible, as he slowly trudges down the hall. 

He stops after a few hours of walking and looks down at his hands, both now covered in the goo up to his wrists. (When did his right hand get the stuff on it?) He sways in place and the movement makes the cobwebs clinging to his hair sway too. Dean frowns; he hates cobwebs. He reaches up and wipes one away, but then he notices another on his ear. He gets that one, too, but the cobwebs seem to be multiplying as well. He feels them everywhere, and starts wildly batting at his shirt, his pants, his arms, anything he can reach.

“Dean!” Is someone calling his name? Is Dean even his name? He doesn’t remember anymore. 

“Dean, come on!” The voice yells, closer this time. He feels sticky. He rubs at the stickiness, but something stops his hand. He looks down and he sees a tendril of the black goo stretching from his arm to the floor. The grip of the black sludge tightens on his wrist and pulls _hard_.

He’s being dragged now. His feet are caught on the sticky floor, but the goo still drags him along. “Stop,” he croaks but the blob of black liquid does not stop. More tendrils wrap around his legs, grabbing him and rooting him to the floor. He is still being tugged by blob in front for him, and he feels like his arms and legs are going to be ripped from his body. 

Dean is dragged through a door and he floor changes again, this time to molten lava. He stops and pulls against the force dragging him. He’ll die if he goes any further.

“I can’t,” he yells, “I’ll burn.” The pull of the black stuff is stronger than him, and keeps pulling. The floor is hot, so hot, but he can’t do anything but keep walking. His shoes are on fire, but he keeps walking. His feet are turning black, but he keeps walking.

Dean gasps as a stream of warm water hits his face. He  blinks and takes in his surroundings; the floor is the usual tile, his shoes are still on, and Cas is furiously scrubbing his hands with a course rag.

“Cas,” Dean says, and Cas looks up at his face. 

“You’re covered in this stuff,” Cas explains, only a slight tremor in his voice, “But as I anticipated, it seems to be hydrophobic.” Dean looks down and now sees oily globules of whatever he touched break up and disappear in small clouds of black steam before they even reach the drain.

Focused on the strange reaction happening at his feet, Dean starts when he feels Cas’ hands cup his face and start scrubbing.

“Cas,” Dean says indignantly around the rag rubbing on his face, “Stop. I’m fine now. I can take care of my face.” Dean wraps one clean hand around Cas’, stopping him and taking his cloth. Cas sighs and lets him have it, before walking over to the cabinet and taking out another washcloth. Dean absently scrubs at his ear, trying to get out the goo he can feel trying to make a break for his ear canal, when Cas yanks Dean’s t-shirt up to his armpits.

“Hey!” Dean shouts, but his protests turn to reluctant huffs of laughter as Cas starts working on the spot on his ribs, a remnant from the original drop on his right arm. Dean tries to squirm away, but Cas’ other hand snaps out to grab Dean’s waist and hold him still. Cas accompanies this with a very serious glare, so Dean calms down and lets Cas move him wherever is necessary, even letting Cas pull his t-shirt all the way off.

After a few minutes of letting Cas manhandle him and scour every visible inch of his skin, Dean breathes a sigh of relief as Cas steps back to eye him for any remaining patches of black goo. 

Without any warning, Cas grabs Dean’s belt and makes quick work of the buckle.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Dean shouts, a blush starting to cover his now goo-free cheeks. He stills Cas’ hands, now resting on Dean’s fly.

“You might have additional spots on your legs,” Cas patiently explains and waits for Dean to loosen his grip. He pops the button of Dean’s jeans the moment Dean lets go, and has the material pooled around Dean’s boots by the time Dean’s brain can catch up to what’s happening.

Dean’s hands fly to cover up his crotch, “You know, I can look for black spots just fine, Cas.”

Cas stops examining the back of Dean’s right calf to shoot Dean a glare. “You told me you were a flying rhinoceros and couldn’t be contained by even my fully-charged angelic power when I found you, so I highly doubt you will be able to objectively examine yourself.” Dean starts to object, but then can’t even remember talking to Cas when he was covered with the mysterious stuff, let alone thinking he was a freakin’ rhino, so he sighs and nods at Cas to continue searching.

From this angle, Dean can’t even say that he minds Cas’ fervent examination quite so much. At some point when Dean’s mind was suffering from the effects of the black goo, Cas had taken off his trenchcoat and suit jacket, leaving him in just a white button-up and slacks. Dean could count on one hand the number of time he’d seen Cas with such (relatively) little clothing. Plus, Cas’ white shirt, getting wetter and wetter under the shower’s spray, is much more transparent and clingy than Dean’s used to.

“Dean,” Cas says and it’s obvious this is not the first time he’s called Dean’s name, “I can’t take your boots off if you don’t cooperate.” Distracted by the muscles of Cas’ back shifting under his soaked shirt, Dean guesses he missed the first couple of times Cas tried to get his attention.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says and lifts his foot just enough for Cas to slip off a boot and sock. His hand falls to Cas’ shoulder to balance himself, and Cas’ skin feels _so warm_ under his hand. Dean can’t remember the last time he just touched someone because he wanted to, and lets his hand linger as Cas moves to deal with Dean’s other boot.

The two boots are tossed unceremoniously out of the shower and Cas stands up, Dean’s hand still gripping his shoulder as a wave of fatigue washes over him; whatever energy he had from being shocked awake by the water is gone now. His neck feels like it can barely support the weight of his head, and his head drops, Cas’ collarbone now completely filling his field of vision.

That’s when he spots it; a tiny drop of the black stuff has made a new home in the dip of Cas’ throat. Dean thinks about telling Cas about the goo, but speaking takes too much effort. So he just rubs it away himself, checking his thumb afterwards to make sure it didn’t transfer to his skin.

Cas is silent and stock-still, and Dean wonders if he really did hear Cas gasp when he touched him. He takes advantage of Cas’ sudden motionless and starts to undo the buttons of Cas’ shirt -- he feels compelled to make sure Cas doesn’t have any other spots hiding somewhere on his smooth but firm torso.

“Dean,” Cas says, bringing up a hand to still Dean’s, “what are you doing?” Dean’s so tired and his brain is so fried, but he thinks he hears a little huskiness creep into Cas’ voice.

“Spots,” Dean answers plainly, “Wanna make sure you don’t have anymore.”

“Anymore? What do you --,” Cas starts, confusion drawing his brows together. Dean looks pointedly at the hollow of Cas’ throat and Cas picks up on the message. With what Dean wants to think is a hint of disappointment, Cas continues, “Oh, that’s why you touched me.” 

Cas sighs and takes over Dean’s clumsy unbuttoning. Last button pushed through its hole, Cas shucks off the shirt, somewhat less graceful than probably intended, since the wet fabric clings obscenely to Cas’ tanned skin. Cas is undoing the button of his fly when Dean realizes that his jeans are still pooled around his ankles and his face heats up in embarrassment. 

Dean tries to pull one foot out of his jeans, but the weight of the sodden denim catches Dean’s still fuzzy-brain by surprise. His foot is caught and his stomach lurches as he overbalances. He fully anticipates getting closer acquainted with the tiled floor of the bathroom, but instead, he only falls far enough to smash his face into Cas’ firm chest. 

Cas’ arms come up to wrap around his torso and Dean thinks Cas’ warm and naked chest is probably the best thing he’s ever fallen into. Dean doesn’t know if it’s a product of his overtaxed brain or just finally giving in to long-buried urges, but he decides now is an excellent time to kiss Cas, so he presses a quick and chaste peck to Cas’ sternum.

Dean’s pretty sure he does in fact hear a gasp from Cas this time, but before he can process what that means, his head is in Cas’ hands, and it’s being pulled up to meet Cas’ eyes.

Cas has a wild look in his eyes as he studies Dean’s face. Dean doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but the need to kiss Cas is back and stronger than ever, so he closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Cas’. Cas sighs at the touch and takes over the gentle kiss Dean, quickly turning it into something desperate and passionate.

“I was so worried, Dean,” Cas breathes between kisses, “I thought you might be too far gone.” Dean tries to respond with words, but after a few aborted attempts at forming syllables, he decides that kissing away Cas’ fears is so much easier. 

Dean’s hands finally get with the picture, and find themselves drawn to Cas’ naked hipbones. Cas sighs again and Dean is more than ready to move this show to his bedroom when he hears the bathroom door slam open.

“So get this,” Sam says, staring down at his notes, “from what Cas told me, I’m pretty sure what you found was a recreational hallucinogenic cooked up by some hippie witches.” Dean groans and disentangles himself from Cas, hitting the shower tap to shut off the water.

“It only attaches itself to your skin,” Sam continues, oblivious to Dean’s frustration at being interrupted, “and since it’s part LSD, part pure demon essence, you get high and a little possessed. The witches built in the water-soluble part as a safe-guard, but the stuff is so effective, they took one tiny drop and never stood a chance.”

Sam finally looks up and sees Dean, soaked and nearly-naked Dean, and his eyes flit to a shirtless Cas, fly of his slacks still open. “Wait, why is Cas naked?”

Dean sighs and stalks over to a pile of fresh towels. “Next time we need someone to go into artifact storage, _you_ can go,” Dean says pointedly to Sam.

Dean picks up his discarded and soaked clothing, and sighs, “I’m going to my bedroom,” before stomping out of the room in frustration. Sam frowns and looks to Cas for an explanation. Cas avoids eye contact, too focused on grabbing his shirt from the floor. 

“I’d better go check on him,” Cas says quickly and follows Dean out the door, practically breaking into a run once away from the slippery tile.

“What about the bodies in Iowa?” Sam calls down the hall, but his only answer is the slamming of Dean’s door.


End file.
